Soft The Shroud Poem by Laurie hill

Soft the shroud, carressing flesh,
that once knew warmth, that once knew life.
Death sings a chorus of the autumn,
falling leaves and shadows rife.

A sombre carpet deep and golden
spread upon this well worn track.
Shades of winter numb the living,
mourners veiled in sombre black.

Pulled so slow, by sleek plumed horses,
on the creaking ancient chaise.
Fragrance sweet from new cut flowers,
seemed so oddly out of place.

Heaped as tributes on the bier,
a myriad of clashing hue.
To where the shell, you graced will lie,
though you are only, passing through.

The ferryman beckons from the mists,
well hid from mortal eyes.
And answered by the shroud clad form,
who takes his hand, , , , goodbye.